


Daniel's Top Five Sexual Fantasies

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 5 Things, Anonymous Sex, Blow Job, Glory Hole, Masturbation, Other, Restraints, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-02
Updated: 2006-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blowing Parker Stevenson (!), m/m/f threesomes, glory holes, restraints, one of his teammates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daniel's Top Five Sexual Fantasies

1\. He fantasizes that he's giving Parker Stevenson a blowjob. He lies on his side in his bed with his eyes closed and his hand leisurely stroking himself, and sometimes he imagines that he's on his knees in the clean white sand of a tropical island somewhere, warm breezes and sunshine caressing his body while he licks and sucks at the sweet cock in his mouth; sometimes he imagines that he's lying on his side in his bed with his eyes closed and his hand leisurely stroking himself while Parker Stevenson, curled impossibly over him between his head and the wall of his bedroom, slowly and gently fucks his mouth. He's perfectly aware of the absurdity of his chosen _objet d'imagination_. If the information is ever yanked into the open by truth serum or interrogation-under-torture or a zatarc detector or a Tok'ra memory device, he'll tell Jack, "Fuck off, I started masturbating in the seventies and _Hardy Boys_ was what happened to be on TV and it just stuck, and anyway don't tell me you never had a thing for feathered hair." The fantasy's worked for more than twenty years. He doesn't worry about it.

2\. He fantasizes that he's being anally penetrated by a man while he's vaginally penetrating a woman from behind. It's the only fantasy he ever has when he's using sex aids; it's what he fantasizes about when he's slid a plug up inside himself and he's pumping his cock in long lubed strokes, getting off on the pressure, getting off on the cool, delicious slickness; it's a little extra zing he gives himself, to intensify the orgasm and to add dimension to what's otherwise a purely tactile interaction with his own body. He saves it until a minute or two before he knows he won't be able to keep the stimulation up without coming, and then he conjures it, around him and in him -- the slick, rigid cock plowing his ass, strength and muscle and weight thrusting him into the thick, wet, yielding flesh underneath him; the jarring impacts of male hipbones on his ass, the firm curved soft-skinned roundness of the ass against his groin. He rolls onto his face and groans deeply into his own pillow, hips bucking as he starts to come, his own involuntary motions fucking him into the sheath of his own hand as though it's someone else's hips pushing his forward, someone else's body he's being pushed into. He's always a little surprised at how hard that gets him off; he'd have thought that kinks were related to some underlying sense of taboo, the frisson of the forbidden, and it's odd that his own bisexuality, about which he's completely unconflicted, should be a kink for him, but it seems to be a hell of a kink. He moans into a boneless lump of repletion in his bed, and thinks about how he's never bothered to find out his own Kinsey rating, and then thinks it would probably be impossible to get a valid result because he knows too much about the underpinnings of the questions. He thinks about how interesting it is that the threesome fantasy makes him come three times harder than he would without it, and three times better than he would if it were a vibrator instead of a plug, when the act isn't something he wants to experience for real. He wonders whether he should have picked up a degree in psychology somewhere along the way, and he falls asleep deciding that he doesn't care, because that felt fantastically good and overanalyzing will only kill the buzz.

3\. He fantasizes about glory holes. Anonymous sex; body parts unconnected to human beings with personalities and feelings; a wall between him and whoever's doing him. In the fantasy, it's safe -- the turn-on isn't the risk, isn't the insanity of sticking your penis somewhere that anything might happen to it, and so he adjusts the scenario to eliminate those risks. It's a fantasy he has to tend, carefully, to keep reality from intruding. He's never seen a glory hole, never been to the kind of place that would have something like that, he's only read about them and half suspects their existence is apocryphal, so he can ignore his own assumptions and replace the dance-club back room he imagines with a clean, safe, locationless space that exists only in his mind. He conjures alien technology, an airborne narcotic or neuroelectric dampening field that neutralizes any urge to do harm -- that sometimes amplifies the desire to give pleasure. He slides his erection into a round, dark opening, perfectly aware of the parallels to the Stargate, perfectly aware that what he's creating for himself is a ring that doesn't take you whole, a ring that transports only the part of you you give it and gives only pleasure on the other side and lets you pull back any time it becomes too much, a ring it's absolutely, unshakably safe to commit yourself to, every time, any time; perfectly aware of what he's eroticizing in metaphor. He slides his dick through the hole, and waits, and when anticipation has torqued his arousal just high enough, a wet eager experienced mouth swallows it down and then bobs on it with enthusiasm and a vibration of pleasured moaning and the perfect balance of speed and friction and tongue and throat ... or an innocent tongue tip touches it in curious exploration, light dabs and soft licks, exquisitely shy but quickly blooming into interest, into hunger, long licks and slurps, a drenching of saliva, hot breath, the lightest brush of teeth along the shaft ... or a slick tight burning ass pushes down over it and clamps on it like a sucking mouth, and he's spread flat against the wall on his side, straining to keep the whole length of his dick thrust through for the hard fucking, while the ass beyond the wall pounds against the other side, leverage obtained by some means he doesn't have to know or understand, riding him at blazing, brutal speed, deliberate rippling muscular contractions in counterpoint, tighter and hotter and faster until he shoots his load deep, and opens his eyes, gasping, face and chest pressed hard against the tiled wall of his shower, water already sluicing off the come still spilling over his pumping hand, a liquid blanket of warmth to ease him down.

4\. He fantasizes about being forced because he's asked to be forced, he's asked or paid for someone else to take complete control of him and make him come as many times and in as many ways as they can in the indeterminate period of allotted time. They take pleasure in it because it's a job they enjoy doing well or because his arousal becomes so beautiful to them that they get intensely turned on themselves. The fantasy is the scenario; he can close his eyes and be in it instantly, and there's no necessity for a willfully imagined progression of linear events, there's no requirement of logic beyond the logic of dreams; it's a dreamspace he slides into whenever he needs a reliable and comfortable turn-on, and he can spike his arousal by dipping into any aspect of its premise. He's always opened and restrained by some vague conception of a smoothly contoured contraption, body-temperature metal or plastic that's a sensual stimulation against his skin, that molds to his body and spreads it, limbs and ass cheeks. Sometimes it's enough to imagine that, exposure to the view of those who will work on him, circulation of cool air around his balls and over his anus. Sometimes he imagines a viewing gallery up above and off to the side somewhere, and a sultry, sensuous unveiling, filmy gossamer fabric draping his chest and his groin, the slide of it over his nipples and over his genitals as it's drawn slowly off to reveal him to the watchers. Sometimes he imagines that they've been working on him for hours already and it's become a challenge to make him come again, and they've slid a vibrator up inside him and left it humming into his prostate, and the main pleasure-provider, a man, is hard at work trying to suck him off, while the vague others, all women, lap at his testicles and his nipples with gentle tongues, caress his limbs with gentle fingers. Sometimes he imagines that it's the man alone, and he's become so worked up that he's begging to be allowed to penetrate him, not with the tools he's supposed to use but with his own erection; Daniel's spread and opened and slicked and ready and all the man has to do is push in; he thrusts with long and deep and rhythmic strokes, and Daniel moans "oh god yes, fuck me" into the dark air of his bedroom, and comes on himself with two or three jerks of his own fingers. Sometimes he imagines that they never touch him with flesh at all, but push him into orgasm over and over again with tools, devices, vibrators, neural stimulators. It can happen in any one of dozens of ways, dozens of variations on the scene; but he's always on his back, voluntarily restrained and helpless, he's always provided with the pleasure he requested, and it's always forced on him, done to him and for him, a pleasure and release he's entitled to and not responsible for, no one there who expects him to say no, or needs him to.

5\. He fantasizes at length about one of his teammates. Long, involved stories culminating in intense moments of self-revelation, all the ways they longed for this and all the ways they tried to stop it, all the ways they know they can't let this happen and all the ways they're going to do it anyway. He imagines every moment in minute detail, every word spoken, every glance exchanged, every tentative first touch; he imagines each article of clothing removed as they lie down on the bed, the hotel bed or one of their own beds or the bed of sand or soft grass or sleeping bags or the silken featherdown bed of a pleasure palace offworld; he replays the most intense moments of revelation, of desires and of bare skin; he inhabits the fantasy as though it's really happening to him, a virtual reality in which the most arousing thing of all is that _this is really happening, we're really doing this after all this time, you really did want me, I wasn't imagining it_, but he backtracks at will to the most arousing moments, to the pivotal moments of _now I know, now this is real_. He lies there daydreaming for luxurious hours, lost in the fantasy, not touching himself at all, his real body all but forgotten in the vivid experience of getting his heart's desire in his mind. When he imagines the lovemaking, finally, it's intense and fragmentary, the slide of a cock, the slippery undulation of fingers, the slow wet thrust of a tongue ... and then he's masturbating, focus shifting into his own engorged flesh, stimulating himself with all the skill he possesses, giving himself the best, the absolute best handjob he's capable of -- and it's only after he comes, after the sharp surge of orgasm has lifted his hips off the bed and then let them fall to sink heavily into the mattress, it's only then that he slips back into the fantasy, sliding into a grateful, comforting embrace of long limbs and sweet, familiar skin, and he wraps himself in his own bedding and pulls his most private desire in close and lets sleep come to him, warm and safe in the arms of his dreams.


End file.
